We stare each other down.

She's already attempted to brush my tangled mess of wiry black hair into some semblance of order, but with little success. Her lackey's efforts to clean my prosthetic leg of nearly two years' worth of soot and grime are even more laughable though, and the man with the fuchsia hair's eyebrow appears to have been dyed a permanent smear of grey.

I meet her green eyes firmly, and she gives a slight cluck of disapproval as she crosses her arms across her chest.

"If you don't keep still, we'll never secure you any sponsors."

Her words soften me slightly. They're true, for a start, they hold none of Abalone's sarcasm, or Mayor Enfield's blithe optimism, or even the bland, colourless tone of our mentor, Balitz. They're simple, straightforward, honest.

I find myself instinctively warming to the woman with the caramel coloured eyes.

Surrendering my clenched fists, I slide back on to the chair, where I am quickly surrounded once more by her three stubborn jawed assistants. My eyes meet hers, and she too relaxes, the outer corners of her mouth twitching into an almost-smile. Striding across, she mutters a few quick words into the fuchsia haired man's ear.

At closer quarters, I can see the bronze lining her eyes and gilding her lashes, connecting them in a series of intricate lace patterns which glimmer against the dark hue of her skin. Across her cheekbones, a dusting of gold feathers out to where her lips are stained black. Compared to District 3 she is lavish, but against the blue hued cheeks of the man with the fuchsia hair and the green eyebrows of the woman who stands beside my legs, her makeup is almost subtle.

She turns her gaze back to me and hardened eyes appraise what I know must be a hard task.

"At least we're getting somewhere. Your predecessor wasn't so kind."

I make a mental note to ask Enfield about her. Last year had been a software engineer, someone I knew neither by face nor by name. I had counted my blessings for 364 days for that.

As they start to work, disengaging my leg with a harsh click, forcing the rough edge of sand against the top layer of my skin, my mind starts to run. The journey to the Capitol had hardly been encouraging.

Mayor Enfield had swept us up quickly before there had been time for goodbyes, only partially perturbed by the momentary interruption of such a smooth ceremony. He had informed us that he himself was going to guide us around the wonders of the city before the Games, that he didn't want a repeat of last year, when one of the tributes from District 3 hung themselves before the start. I wonder idly if it was the same tribute my stylist mentioned.

I also wonder if I could get away with hanging Abalone before the Games.

So far, Enfield has seen enough of our glances to know to keep us as far as possible away from each other, even if that means us occupying opposite ends of the apartment complex. He regards our hatred with more than a little annoyance.

I suppose he wanted a golden pair, two tributes that could capture the imagination of the Capitol, and the hearts and wallets of more than a few investors for District 3.

I don't regret having to disappoint him.

Balitz, on the other hand, had regarded our relationship with little more than apathy. We'd met her on the train too, our mentor, the ex-munitioneer who had entered the Games the Darling of District 3 and walked out little more than a shell. Her electric blue hair now hangs limp over her eyes, no longer representing the sparky personality that once enthralled the Capitol.

It was four years ago now, and my memories are hazy, but they're still strong enough to remember the 21st Hunger Games.

Up until then, we had never won. Balitz changed that. She had been fourteen, a line runner at the SMNV Plant just north of ours. The Arena had been a salt lake, trapped inside a crater. Rumour has always said that Munitioneers have the most brutal imagination.

There had been five tributes left beside her, our male tribute had died in the bloodbath, just like most of ours have, but she was still there, still going, and the whole of District 3 had sat with our breaths baited. The remainder of the reaped had been largely Careers, and we all knew that it would take a miracle to get her out of there alive. What we hadn't counted on was her cunning.

Short circuiting one of the mines surrounding the starting platforms, she had used a length of copper wire and electrocuted the rest of the competition.

"What you thinking of?"

The voice startles me out of my thoughts, and I refocus on the honeyed eyes inches away from mine as hands dust powder across my cheeks.

"Balitz Krye."

She smiles then, although it is more of a wry smirk than a genuine smile. "Really? Can't say I had the pleasure of working on her. Beautiful girl though, very haunting."

I shift in my seat; uncomfortable with the realisation my leg is being bleached bone white in another room. I try to distract myself. "If she was haunting, what style am I going for then, confusing?"

"Hah! If Balitz was to haunt, then you are to captivate. Quickfire, you will eat them alive."

"The tributes, or the audience?" I grin in return.

"Perhaps both, perhaps both." Drawing back, she rests a hand on her hip as she assesses me, clicking her tongue impatiently against the roof of her mouth. "Cornelius, Aquila!" The fuchsia hair and the green eyebrows rush to her side in a swathe of colours. "Fetch me the chariot outfit and the leg. Quick!"

At their dismissal, she turns back towards me. "You will win them over Quickfire, of that I am sure. And even if your words fail you, my dress won't. I would never call myself Cassandra again otherwise. Now. Close your eyes."

I obey, and feel my leg being slotted back into position, the rush of fabrics being forced over my head, three sets of fingers skimming the hems and the edges before wrapping around into my hair and pulling it into a loose bun. The world is quiet as they withdraw, and I can hear my heart beat faintly in my chest as Cassandra speaks.

"Open."

The mirror scarcely reflects the scruffy munitioneer who walked in scarcely a few hours ago. Instead of a harsh bun revealing the burn scar pulled across the right side of my face, my hair falls from its pins in soft swathes that cover my past and soften my features. My dark eyes are rimmed with silver, inked in the distinct pattern of circuitry that works its way across my left cheek.

But it is the dress that catches my mind.

I've never been one for fancy designs or fashionable impracticality, but the set of my costume threatens to rob me of my conviction.

The dark grey fabric is a soft satin, covered with a faint layer of silver chiffon across which blue trails of lightening fork and splinter into the design. Across the bodice, thin panels glow with a blue light, extending upwards past the v neck to my shoulder pads, where between two upward prongs silver wire glows like a discharging power cable.

I take a step forward and the lightning shivers in position, the cut of the dress swaying to reveal a split in the fabric. From between the swathes of silken material, I catch a glimpse of my leg. It's still the same, untouched from the moment it was taken away from me, still covered in soot and scratches.

Glancing questioningly at Cassandra, she answers with a firm nod. "You have your beauty, your satins and your circuitry. That is to remind them that you are still dangerous."

I nod myself then, and turn to walk out towards where Abalone, the chariot, and a ride of a lifetime are waiting. My hands inch towards my throat, but I pin them tight to my sides, contenting myself with holding them to fists.

"Quickfire." Ours eyes catch. "Come out of this alive."